Love Is Here To Stay
by nayasrivera
Summary: All you know is that you're waiting. One-shot from Dani's perspective


**A/N: I'm sorry I didn't proofread this and it honestly could be so much better if it was more developed but idgaf anymore, I can't get this out of my head. So here you go kids.**

* * *

You walk to the coffee shop on 3rd St. at 7 o'clock every morning before work. You walk down the same 2 blocks, eyes straight ahead, no expression on your face. Every morning you enter the red building, sit at the corner table and wait. The barista––Claire? you can't remember her name, although you have a faint memory that you used to be good friends––looks at you with the exact amount of pity that you hate.

Everyday you wait. You stare out the window at nothing in particular, rubbing your right thumb across your left palm. Back and forth. Back and forth.

You're not exactly sure what you're waiting for. To see her? To hear her voice, feel her touch? Maybe. You don't really know.

All you know is that you're waiting.

And then at 8 o'clock you get up and you leave. The workers don't even bother reminding you to buy something anymore. They just give you that look. The one that makes you want to scream in frustration because you hate it _that_ much.

Every morning you repeat this: 2 blocks down 3rd street, red building, corner table, staring out the window, your thumb rubbing back and forth, back and forth. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

She'd be mad at you, you know that. She'd want you to be happy, and keep making music, and smile at everyone on the street. So you tried to be happy––you really, really did. But you just couldn't, because _she_ was your happiness. And _she_'s not around anymore.

You remember her smile, her laugh, the crinkle of her eyes when you said 'I love you.' You remember the perfect fit of her lips on yours, and the feel of her hands stroking your hair in the early hours of the morning. You remember holding wine glasses during late nights, with your free arm wrapped around her neck as you slowly sway around your living room to Ella Fitzgerald's version of _Love Is Here To Stay, _and you remember setting those same wine glasses down on the counter as your arm slowly pulls her face towards you, kissing her long and deep, until that's not enough. And you remember laying in bed with her, your arm resting on the swell of her stomach, as you whisper in her ear how excited you are to be a mom.

You remember sitting in the red coffee shop, your hand in hers, stroking her thumb against your palm––back and forth, back and forth.

You remember all these things, and sometimes you catch yourself smiling as you do mundane things, like wiping off the kitchen table, or getting dressed.

But then you'll see your guitar, sitting dusty in the corner from not being played in months, and you remember how she's not there to ask you to play for her. Then you remember a 7-month pregnant Santana screaming for you, and you rushing into the bathroom to find blood all over the floor. You remember riding in the ambulance to the hospital, and praying––just _praying_––that your wife and daughter would be okay. And then you remember the doctor walking out to meet you in the waiting room with a somber look on his face. And you remember the funeral, and Rachel hugging you, and speeches, and flowers, and legal documents and crying, _so much crying_.

You chastise yourself, thinking how could you ever _smile_, when so much bad has happened.

Every Friday night you walk 2 blocks down 3rd street to visit the flower shop across the street from the coffee shop. You buy different flowers every time––you've been through every kind more than 3 times now––and you head down 1st avenue instead. Because that's where the cemetery is, and the cemetery is where _she_ is.

You enter the gates, flowers still in your hand, and head down the familiar path, close enough to the rest of the plots for it not to be lonely, but far enough to be private. You take your time as you put the flowers in, talking to her softly and telling her about your day. Then you sit on the small granite bench about 2 feet away––right thumb stroking back and forth in your left palm once again––and you stare at her name, _Santana Marie Lopez-Harper, Loving Wife and Daughter. _You stare at it, waiting. And after a little, a plaque below it appears, _Isabelle Lopez-Harper. _You stare at it long and hard, still waiting, until you realize it's just an image created by the whirlwind of your mind.

You sit there for 2 hours, waiting for something that you haven't figured out yet.

When you get home, you shower and change, before climbing into bed and looking at the empty ceiling. You think maybe it's a metaphor for how you feel. But then you start crying, and you cry and cry until you're too tired and you drift off, dreaming about what could've been and what should've been.

The next morning you walk those same 2 blocks to go sit in the red coffee shop, ignoring the pitiful stare from the barista. You go to the table and wait, your right thumb stroking your left palm, back and forth, back and forth.

You do this for a year.

* * *

On the anniversary of that dreadful day, you wake up and head out the door to sit in the coffee shop, but this time something is different. You're walking with your arms wrapped around yourself, blonde hair blowing different directions in the wind, when you hear it.

It's faint, but you'd recognize it anywhere.

_But oh my dear_

_Our love is here to stay_

_Together we're going a long long way_

It's Ella's version––it's _yours and Santana's_ version––and something snaps in your head as the tears pool into your eyes.

_In time the Rockies may crumble_

You stop for a second, and then you take off down 3rd as fast as you can, trying to get away from the sound quickly.

_Gibraltar may tumble_

It's getting fainter, and you're about to reach the coffee shop, but this time you walk right past the red building.

_They're only made of clay_

You're almost running now, and maybe you should be concerned but instead you feel free because you think you might have finally figured out what you've been waiting for, so you storm down the street, passing dogs and business women and kids walking to school.

You don't hesitate as you walk right out into the street.

You register a loud honk, and screaming, and _fuck, _it hurts, but you don't care now because you finally know exactly what you've been waiting for the past year. Then there's a slow flash of light and you feel complete again, like you're on your way to a life beyond cemeteries and pitiful looks and red coffee shops.

_But our love is here to stay_

* * *

When you wake up, it feels different. As you blink, you can see that the room is all white, but it's a good white and it reminds of you weddings in the springtime. In your haze, you suddenly become aware that there's an arm around you and that there's something in your hand. You look down to see a familiar tan hand softly stroking the inside of your palm, back and forth, back and forth, just how you like it. When it registers, you flip around to see dark hair and brown eyes as you hear the raspy voice you love say "Good morning beautiful," and see those perfect teeth smile at you.

"San?" you whisper, as your hand grabs her cheek, looking at her in disbelief.

"I've missed you," she says and then she's pulling you into a kiss and you think that the waiting was worth it if you get to experience this.

20 minutes later you're still just staring at each other, until you feel a huge thump on the bed and you break the stare, startled to find a little girl smiling back at you.

"MOMMY, YOU'RE HOME!"

_What._

"Yes, Izzy, mommy's finally home," Santana says from beside you, smiling at the wide-eyed look you have on your face.

_Oh._

You feel the tears coming again as your daughter pulls you out of bed and drags you into the kitchen, yelling something about breakfast, and you glance at Santana who's smiling at you and you are so thankful for no more stupid red coffee shops.


End file.
